


Against Logic

by MykaWells



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Angst, Canon, F/F, season 2 finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 05:42:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1417207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MykaWells/pseuds/MykaWells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You didn't want to do it, not really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Against Logic

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my tumblr (myka-wells).

You didn’t want to do it, not really.

You were looking for reasons not to. Even as you sent those boys to find the entrance to Warehouse 2, you were looking for a reason, an excuse not to use the trident. You thought you found it, because you found her, and the mere fact that she exists in it might just be enough to leave this miserable world alone.

But the boys were stupid. You know you ought not speak ill of the dead, but they were foolish. You had no trouble thinking so when you learnt they died. Then you visited his mother and his sister…and his sister reminds you of what Christina could have been in this century.

And that little could-have-been-Christina hurts. She’s in pain, and you know her mother’s immeasurable pain. You caused that. You were the fool to send the boys there, to expect that they would find a door and not try to open it. He died doing your bidding, this little girl’s brother, that woman’s child, and it reminds you that this world is cruel. That you were a part of that cruelty is not something you can bear. It breaks you, because you never thought yourself capable of visiting such pain upon an innocent human being, upon a could-have-been-Christina.

So you decide right then, in could’ve been Christina’s room, that at least their misery would have purpose. You would go to Egypt, get what you needed. You would erase this miserable, cruel world for could-have-been-Christina, and things would get better. They had to.

And you did it. You did all of it.

Almost…

Myka’d always been too smart, too fast for her own good, and now she’s standing in front of you, directly on top of a fault line you’re about to rip open. You wish she would run, far and fast, so that she might have a chance. But she won’t, and you know she’ll be the first to die. That third strike will kill her, and it’s again almost enough to leave the world alone. Then you feel all the old anger and grief boil up, and Artie pulls out that gun. When he shoots you with it, shoots himself with it, you have no choice. It is an opening salvo, and you must respond in kind, blow for blow.

So you thrust the trident into the soil and you can feel the metal humming with electricity, with power. It goes straight to your head, quite literally; the buzz is intoxicating. You can feel the trident’s power in you, in your veins, pushing you to do it again and again and again, an adrenaline rush of the highest order.

You hesitate though. You hesitate because Myka still cares enough that her instinct is to take a step towards you after Artie shoots. She cares enough that she’s pointing a gun at you like it’s the last thing that she wants to do. After all you’ve done, she still does not want to hurt you, and you are convinced that, even without the Corsican vest, she would not have pulled the trigger. She never even cocks the gun.

Myka lets her arm fall to her side. Now she’s using a far more effective bargaining tool. Her eyes. Her eyes are begging you not to do this; they’re desperately pleading with you. And, yet again, that is nearly enough stop. But she starts the talk about mothers and children. And you think about Christina and not-Christina, and how you must do this for her, and your brain is so twisted up in its own pain and grief and anger that you fail to see the flaws in your own logic.

You drive the trident into the ground a second time, feel the earth vibrate violently beneath your feet, eager to open up, to swallow you whole. Whole.You want to laugh at the thought. No part of you is whole anymore. You came out of bronze that way, a woman with a mind muddled by time and grief and anger and pain and fear, a poor imitation or what you had been. You’re broken, irretrievably shattered.

But she makes you a little less broken. Myka, standing there, begging you with all that trust in her eyes, talking about that little part of your soul that knows this is all wrong. She doesn’t know, but she is that small part of your soul. It exists because she is there, in front of you, looking at you, trusting you, trusting, against all evidence and logic, in your goodness. Because she is good, too good, far too good for this world that she is trying to protect. It does not deserve her. This world does not deserve to have such a beautiful soul in it. That makes you angry, angry like when you realized this world did not deserve little not-Christina, and you want to drive the trident into the ground.

Just one more time. One more time thrusting the trident into the gravelly soil, and you will be free of this brokenness, the world will be free of its own brokenness. Just once more you must block Myka out, pretend that she isn’t in you, in you bones and your soul. But your eyes are still full of Myka, and the worst thing is she’s not paniking. And, despite the yelling, she’s not even really angry. She’s just hurting. She’s hurting because of you.

Despite that she still reaches for you, not to strike you, even though she probably should. She steps closer and reaches out to touch you with a gentleness that you do not deserve. So you grab her wrist, squeeze it tight enough that it probably hurts, even though she doesn’t say so. But now you’re touching her, skin on skin, and that’s making this even harder, because she is real and warm and you don’t know why she’s even bothering. Which makes you wonder why you’re bothering, and you’re losing your grip on all that anger. It’s morphing into something else. You fight that, fight it so hard, that your voice sounds rough and forced when you yell at Myka not to touch you.

But Myka doesn’t move away. No, instead, you find a gun, the very weapon you refused to even touch after Christina’s death, pressed into your hand. The gun feels heavy and metallic and ugly against your palm. And it’s pointing at Myka because she’s demanding you do this, and you think you can do that for her. Because you aren’t a coward, and you don’t want Myka to suffer anymore. Your brain is still muddled enough to actually believe that logic, so you cock the gun and you finger curls around the trigger, the metal cool against your skin. The pressure of Myka’s forehead against the muzzle is steady.

Then you remember Christina, and the smell of gun powder and the sound of the gun and the blood. God, all of the blood, everywhere. And the ache, the numb, excruciating, throbbing ache in places you didn’t know existed as you held her body in your arms.

The memory buckles your knees and rips a scream from your throat, because Christina is dead. Christina is dead, and that’s bad enough. Myka can’t be dead too. She just can’t, not by your hand, not with that gun that looks and feels   _is_ so much like the gun that took Christina.

Myka had been right, of course. You were looking for a reason not to do this. And you found one, you found your reason at the very last second. Myka is your reason. She will never know that, and would never believe you if you told her. But it’s true. Myka is your only reason for not doing this. She is the good in you.

Which is why, when you learn your fate, you ask to retain your love of literature. Because Myka loves literature, and you want to keep a little bit of her in your soul, even when you remember nothing else. You hope that it will make you half as decent and brave and beautiful as her. And you think of her as the coin settles in your hand, as it methodically siphons the memories away. The very last memory to slip through your fingertips is one of the best ones of Myka: she is resting her head in your lap as you read her passages from your books. She smiles at you and then it’s gone.

And now…

“My name is Mr. Kosan. You’ve had a terrible accident.”

**Author's Note:**

> Angst is new territory for me with this ship, so I'd love feedback. Thanks for reading :)


End file.
